


Housegate

by mortaltemples



Category: Gilmore Girls
Genre: Five Times, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Post-Revival, Vignette, revival spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-09-13 10:30:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9119701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mortaltemples/pseuds/mortaltemples
Summary: “Even if I had taken him up on the offer, it would have been fine. Awkward, but fine. No murder would have taken place” Rory said primly, smoothing her top down over her stomach.“If you had taken up the offer, I would have made you go to self-defence classes.” Paris said calmly and with the utmost sincerity. “Friends don’t let friends get murdered for wanting to move out of a mistress house.”Or, the five times someone helps Rory see the funny side of Logan offering her a house.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I basically wanted to have a go at writing Gilmore-esque dialogue and to lovingly mock what I have come to refer to with friends as 'the Mistress House' in Fall.
> 
> George Eliot references included just to prove it is me who wrote this.

The first and most important step to getting your life back on track, Rory had discovered, was instituting a strict and regular sleep schedule. No more living between timezones, no more tap-dancing at two in the morning. The baby and, by the way, _herself_ , both required a solid eight hours at a normal time - nocturnal living was right out.

 

It had proved surprisingly easy, it just so happens that having another human being growing inside of you actually causes the human body to get tired enough to sleep.

 

So instead of answering her phone at the now ungodly hour of eleven thirty at night, she rang Jess back the next day like the mature, responsible adult Rory had now sworn to be.

 

“Sorry about that, I forgot that you’re doing that whole ‘adulthood’ thing now.” He said in lieu of greeting her.

 

“Hey, don’t knock it - adulthood happens to the best of us eventually. Anyway, now that I’m actually awake, what did you want to talk about?”

 

The two of them had settled into this dynamic since the previous summer - discussing Rory’s book every few weeks and light, easy to digest updates on her pregnancy. A polite, quasi-personal, mostly-professional friendship punctuated on occasion by awkward silences and stilted conversations.

 

“Oh, I don’t have any notes on the latest pages yet I just wanted to ask you who the hell pissed in Huntzberger Senior’s soup.” He said casually, Rory could vaguely hear some thumps in the background. Hipster bookshop duties stop for no phone conversation, she supposed.

 

“Ah. Good question. It probably started with his maid in LBJ’s first administration - Alberta from Toronto who decided she hated him after he got her dog Toto deported for not being a purebred shitzu.” She said, nodding sagely. She could practically hear Jess pause on the other end of the phone.

 

“Look, you say that but it honestly wouldn’t shock me all that much.”

 

Rory had sent him the chapter dealing with her initial acquaintance with Mitchum Huntzberger five days ago - she wasn’t in the habit of sending her ex-boyfriend every single chapter, because that would just be _awkward_ , she just wanted to make sure that this one in particular wouldn’t get her sued. Most people would think that carrying the man’s grandchild might earn her some brownie points but. It’s Mitchum. And the situation, to be fair. But mainly Mitchum.

 

“I’m just saying, the fact that you lived through this leads me to think you were secretly the inspiration behind _Downton Abbey_ and you never bothered to tell me.”

 

“Because you’re such a Julian Fellowes fan.” Rory said as she poured her second cup of coffee of the day. Three days after she had told Paris about the pregnancy, her friend had sent her a 137 document-strong Dropbox link to all the stuff she needed to know about being pregnant. Lorelai had printed out the study about coffee not harming the foetus and stuck it to the fridge.

 

All 23 pages of it.

 

She took a sip of her coffee and paused as she reflected on the disaster zone that is the Huntzberger dynasty.

 

“God, that whole family thinks it’s still the nineteenth century.” She said. Logan would, of course, always be part of her life, part of her heart even, but no Gilmore ever got anywhere by screwing around with men too weak to stand up to their fathers. She’d agreed with Logan - a weekly Skype call, the funding of all education and unconditional visits to the baby whenever Logan was Stateside, but the two of them had to be done romantically. Rory needed to keep the situation as simple as she possibly could, and she was okay with that.

 

“Hey, at least this guy was just kind of a dick instead of going the whole way to full-on Anne Radcliffe villain.” Jess said. Rory snorted, but then quickly sobered as she thought of the most ridiculously Huntzberger thing she’d ever experienced that took place only a few months previously. She massaged her temple briefly, considering if the two of them were at That Point yet, where they could gossip and share like friends, instead of the almost-colleagues, almost-cousins they were now.

 

Screw it, she thought. At the very least, Jess would get a kick out of it.

 

“You don’t even know the most Victoriana part.” She said.

 

“Why? Was Logan’s mother locked in an attic somewhere or something?” He asked.

 

“Okay, before I tell you, you have to understand that this was Logan’s way of being sweet. He wanted to help and he did _not_ mean it the way I just know that you’re going to take it. He’s just a little bit clueless about how non-gazillionaires act. I just really want to emphasise that this was a sweet gesture or an attempt at one and he genuinely did not think it was anything weird or untoward or whatever.” She said.

 

“You’re really building this up into something incredible and I’ve got to say, Gilmore, you had better deliver.” Jess said and she could practically hear the grin and the gears in his head turning as he tried to think of the most ludicrous Rich Person problem Rory could possibly devise.

 

“Back in October, Logan...well. Logan offered me the use of one of his houses to write the book.” She said, cringing as she even thought of the memory.

 

“I love that - _one_ of his houses. Because of course a guy in his early thirties, in this economy, needs multiple houses.” Jess said glibly. Rory didn’t reply, just took another sip of coffee as she waited for the anecdote to sink in and for it to register in his brain.

 

“Wait.” He said, and then paused again as he thought of what to say. “So he tried to give you a house? He’s engaged and wanted to give his _mistress_ an official Huntzberger residence?” And there it was. Rory cringed and set her coffee mug down on the counter.

 

“Please don’t say mistress - it makes it sound way too Ancien Régime.” She protested.

 

“No, you’re right, it’s far more Victorian novelesque.” He said with a laugh.

 

“I turned the offer down, though! That’s got to count for something. But you’re right, it’s too Gwendolen Harleth for words.” She said.

 

“Oh, no, Gilmore, you’re wrong there. You were _not_ Gwendolen Harleth in that situation. You were that woman with the secret family who Grandcourt kicks out the mansion when he marries Gwendolen Harleth - that’s who you were.”

 

“Oh my God.”

 

“Cursed any diamond necklaces lately?”

 

“I am never telling you anything ever again.” She told him, but at least she was smiling about it.

 

* * *

 

An advantage to being friends with Paris Geller, other than seeming calm and collected by comparison, was the kickass pre-natal and post-natal services Rory was able to enjoy. Paris had gone into overdrive in her sweet yet overbearing and terrifying way, making Rory feel both waves of love for her friend, and beg for the end of this pregnancy to come so she wouldn’t have to call her with twice daily updates on her symptoms. Rory was by this point four months pregnant.

 

Five to go, she thought as she stretched out on Paris’ brand new, early-twentieth century, extremely valuable chaise longue.

 

“Don’t bother with any Yoga for New Mommies classes.” Paris told her. “I know the woman who runs the class Blake Lively goes to and let me tell you, you’ve never met anyone more full of shit.”

 

“Blake Lively or the woman who runs the class?” Rory asked, fanning herself through the hot flush that she was suddenly suffering through. Paris gave her a withering look. Fair enough.

 

“What you _actually_ need is fresh air. Get out of the city, Hell, get out of Stars Hollow if you can. Your body is gestating an alien lifeform and it needs countryside rambles, hearty foods and as few whale noise tapes as Luke will let you get away with.” She told her firmly.

 

“I _hardly_ think I’m gestating an alien lif-”

 

“Yes, you are.” She said. Rory was not about to argue with three Ivy League degrees and a multi-million dollar fertility empire. “Go stay with Emily in Nantucket, or better yet, have her buy you your own house there.”

 

Rory nodded, it was a fair and not entirely unreasonable suggestion.

 

“Maybe I should ask Logan if that Maine pad is still available.” She mused lightly. It was a joke, or at least 78% of it was. Nevertheless, Paris frowned, stood up and strode briskly to her computer that practically took up an entire wall. She clicked a few buttons and some sheets of paper came out of the printer just next to Rory.

 

“Read that, then try telling me that asking Huntzberger for anything other than college tuition and a full medical history of his family is a good idea.” Paris said confidently as Rory reached for the pages.

 

“‘Millionaire gets life for escort’s murder’.” Rory read. Paris nodded.

 

“He strangled this woman who was living in a house he had bought her because she wanted the deeds signed over to her name. Sound familiar?” She said. Rory let the pages fall onto her slightly swollen stomach.

 

“Not even slightly.” She said.

 

“I’m just saying, you had a lucky escape, my friend. Oh, sure, it would have started acceptably, living rent-free in an enormous mansion, just you and his lovechild with occasional visits from the man himself. But eventually, you’d want a place of your own, rather than being Logan’s secret family. Next thing you know, there you’d be on the front page of every society rag in the country for being strangled by one of his minions. He would have turned on you, and you just know it.” Rory wondered, sometimes, what it was like living in Paris’ head. It was no doubt equal parts horrifying and terrifying.

 

“Yeah, but I turned it down. Plus, there’s always the fact that Logan would never have -” She looked at the BBC article “Strangled me for wanting to move house.”

 

“I bet that’s what that poor escort thought about her sugar-daddy too.” Paris said

 

“Logan is _not_ my sugar-daddy.” Gross. That’s what this whole conversation is. It’s just. Gross.

 

“And the only reason that you are not lying dead wrapped in plastic like it’s 1990 in the Pacific Northwest is because you’ve got people around you to stop you from making stupid decisions.” Paris said, not even the slightest hint of humour in her eyes.

 

“Again, I repeat, I turned it down. And I did it without your help, may I remind you!” Rory waved her arms above her head.

 

“And then you apparently had some kind of stroke where you almost-immediately forgot about the existence of condoms so forgive me for not quite trusting your decision-making abilities on this front.” Rory threw a peanut at her friend.

 

“Even if I had taken him up on the offer, it would have been fine. Awkward, but fine. No murder would have taken place” Rory said primly, smoothing her top down over her stomach.

 

“If you had taken up the offer, I would have made you go to self-defence classes.” Paris said calmly and with the utmost sincerity. “Friends don’t let friends get murdered for wanting to move out of a mistress house.”

 

Rory lay in silence for a moment, then had a perfect vision of Paris leaping through a window, and busting out her best krav maga moves on a sneering Bluebeard-esque villain in the vague shape of Logan. She let out a snort, and it felt good.

 

* * *

 

Rory could not get over her gratefulness. Lorelai had laughed at first, the humour tinged with slight hysteria, about history repeating itself, making as many _Battlestar Galactica '_ All that has happened before’ references as it was physically possible to fit into one breath, but Rory knew that her situation was nothing like her mother’s thirty-two years ago.

 

For one thing, Rory had Lane. And access to all of Steve and Kwon’s baby clothes, and shoes, and tiny baby books. More importantly, she had access to Lane and Zach’s CD and vinyl collection. The privileges of thirty years of friendship finally coming to fruition.

 

“When I was pregnant with the boys, I had a whole thirty-eight album strong playlist I would go through most days.” Lane told her one day as they were sat outside on Lane’s porch, enjoying the crisp March air and weak sunshine.

 

“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.”

 

“No child of mine was going to come out of the womb without knowing the difference between Ziggy and the Thin White Duke.” Lane said firmly. Rory nodded, she could appreciate that level of commitment.

 

“For the moment I’m sticking with the basics - Mom told Paris she read an article in the HuffPost that Mozart helps foetuses come out as math geniuses so whenever she comes round to visit we just blast a good old dose of Die Zauberflöte. We’re trying to see how long it takes her to crack.” Rory said with a grin.

 

“You’re taking your life in your hands there, my friend.”  


“I like to live on the edge.”

 

The friends sat in silence for a moment, with Rory tugging up the blanket she had draped over her lap so she could fit her hands underneath it.

 

“Did I tell you about what Zach is putting me through?” Lane said, looking deadly serious.

 

“No?”

 

“He’s been dabbling in country music.” She whispered.

 

“No.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“No.”

 

“I know.”

 

“Have you served him with papers yet?” Rory asked. Lane shook her head sadly.

 

“I’m waiting for them to come down.” Rory nodded.

 

“Have you heard from Logan recently?” Lane asked. Rory shrugged.

 

“We talked after I sent him the ultrasound picture. He was pretty psyched about it, but his wedding’s next month so I’m not really going to talk to him for a while unless it’s an emergency.” She trailed off. Lane nodded.

 

“Gotcha. You don’t want to be two Carrie Underwood songs at once.” She said. Rory frowned.

 

“Are you sure it’s only Zach who’s been dabbling?” She asked. Lane snorted.

 

“I’m just saying, for a while there you were one pair of cowboy boots and a Trump-voting father away from being the bleach blonde tramp drinking some fruity little drink because she can’t shoot whiskey.”

 

“I’ve never been more offended in my entire life.” Rory said. Lane raised an eyebrow at her.

 

“He offered you a house, Rory.” She said.

 

“A safe place in which to _write my book_! It’s not like he drew up a contract renting the house to me in exchange for sex!” Lane tilted her head skeptically at Rory.

 

“I’m kind of curious as to why your mind immediately jumped to prostitution.”

 

Rory threw her arms up in frustration and scowled at her friend. Lane nudged her with her shoulder.

 

“Even if you had gone for it, you would be my favourite prostitute this side of Julia Roberts.” She said. Rory pouted and threw an arm around Lane, tugging her into her side.

 

“You’re the best.”

 

“Hey, you’re still my best friend regardless of you being high society’s version of Becky With The Good Hair.”

 

Rory giggled and rubbed her stomach. Lane smiled at her.

 

“I’m glad you’re able to see the funny side of this now.” She said softly.

 

“I’m getting there.”

 

* * *

 

Jess, predictably, had not stopped giving her shit for Housegate, as Lorelai had taken to calling it. It turns out that he had a surprisingly broad range of Victorian literature references to choose from, and he was apparently determined to use them all before the baby comes in four months’ time.

 

The latest was when Rory managed to catch a cold, halting her writing and everything so she could recover. Jess, of course, thought it’d be hilarious to send her a few books in the post to entertain her.

 

 _Anna Karenina_ , _Madame Bovary_ , and, curiously enough, _Middlemarch_. Inside the cover of that last one, he’d written a hasty note.

 

‘Remember - you’re supposed to want to be Mary Garth, not Lydia Glasher.’

 

He was out to ruin her life, it was the only explanation.

 

Lorelai saw the note and frowned.

 

“Who’s Lydia Glasher?” She asked. Rory sighed.

 

“She’s a character from _Daniel Deronda_.” Lorelai pursed her lips. That didn’t really help clarify things. Rory groaned and put her aching head in her hands.

 

“It’s a novel, and there’s a storyline about a girl, Gwendolen Harleth, who ends up marrying this cruel guy who is super rich and cold and who has a secret family who curse Gwendolen and it ruins her life and she ends up alone.” Rory said, all in one breath.

 

“Wow, and Jess thinks you’re…..Harlot?” Lorelai said confusedly. Rory shook her head.

 

“No, he thinks I’m the secret family slash cursing lady.” Rory paused. “It’s a whole thing.” She said, waving her hand dismissively.

 

“I’m still not getting it, Babe.”

 

“I told him about the mistress house and he found it hilarious.” Lorelai nodded.

 

“I always knew I liked that boy.” Rory started.

 

“You _hated_ Jess.”

 

“Yeah, before he learned to laugh at himself. And at you, apparently.” Lorelai said, as though it made perfect sense. Rory supposed that it did, after a fashion. Lorelai considered the note for a second.

 

“You know, he isn’t wrong. Housegate _is_ rather like that movie we watched that time.” She said.

 

“Very helpful.”

 

“Quiet, I’m making an analogy.” Lorelai said. “It’s the one with Kiera Knightley and the lady from Captain America, except you’re not Kiera Knightley, you’re the lady from Captain America and you’re living in Kiera Knightley’s house, eating Kiera Knightley’s food, but you’re having sex with Kiera Knightley’s husband and causing her to be humiliated in the eyes of society.”

 

“Thank you, so much for that one, Mom.” Lorelai shrugged and passed the book back to Rory. “Who plays Kiera Knightley’s husband again?”

 

Lorelai thought for a second, Rory could see her mother leafing through her mental rolodex of actors and films, arranged by genre and Rotten Tomatoes rating, of course, before finally finding the entry she was looking for.

 

“Ralph Fiennes.” She said at last. Rory considered that for a moment.

 

“I can work with that.” She said. Lorelai gasped, horrified at the thought that she could possibly give birth to such a child with such blasphemous opinions.

 

“He played Voldemort, Rory.” She said. “You would be having Voldemort’s lovechild.”

 

“No,” Rory replied slowly, “In this analogy, I’d be having the lovechild of the guy who plays Voldemort. Not Voldemort himself. It’s an important distinction.” Lorelai shook her head.

 

“Not enough of a buffer there, Kid. The ol’ beansprout growing inside you would come out with a dangerous love of snakes and an obsession with Daniel Radcliffe.” She said with the air of someone making a deeply serious and inevitable prophecy. The ice caps will melt, the sun will expand, and Rory Gilmore will give birth to Voldemort’s lovechild.

 

“An obsession that you would no doubt encourage.” Rory said. Lorelai shrugged.

  
“I can’t be blamed if I want my grandchild to have a stake in the family business.”

 

“Of obsessing over Daniel Radcliffe?”

 

“What else is there?”

 

Rory let out a laugh.

 

“Well, I guess we have another reason to be thankful Housegate never got past the initial scandal stage.”

 

* * *

 

How Kirk found out about Housegate was beyond her. And yet, here she was, Rory Gilmore - Ivy League educated, international journalist and future single-mom, being interrogated about the implications of a casual offer six months after the fact.

 

“I just want to clarify how it would have worked.” He said. Rory poked her omelette in Luke’s as Kirk sat next to her, earnestly discussing this with her.

 

“I would have written the book and moved out.” Rory said through slightly gritted teeth. Kirk frowned.

 

“But in that time, you would have found out that you were pregnant, so surely that would have changed something?” Rory stabbed a small piece of ham in frustration and ate it.

 

“Well, I guess we will never know.” She said dismissively. Kirk shook his head.

 

“I’m sorry, Rory, but as the closest thing you’ve ever known to an uncle -”

 

“That’s not even _close_ to being true.”

 

“I feel like it is my duty to assess what was to be this extremely unusual living situation. For example, did you consider what would happen during the holidays?” He asked, as though he were enquiring about the logistics of a parcel delivery or a catering service.

 

“No, I didn’t.”

 

“Because if you ask me, that would have been _highly_ difficult to manage. Thanksgiving was about a month away from when the offer was made and I’ve got to tell you, I’d have found it to be completely unacceptable for you to have to sit through a Thanksgiving, pregnant and all alone without the support of myself or Taylor or _any_ friendly face, at a table with Mr. Huntzberger and his fiancée and, quite possibly, the rest of both of their families.” He finished this little speech with a firm nod. Rory raised an eyebrow. Enough was enough, it was time to put this particular topic to rest.

 

“Don’t be silly Kirk.” She said lightly. “I wouldn’t have been alone.”

 

Kirk frowned at her.

 

“I would have Petal with me, because, as you said, there’s no way I would have been able to manage the whole crowd on my lonesome.” She said sweetly and stabbed another piece of ham for emphasis. Kirk blanched, and his eyes even glistened as he stood up hastily and ran out the diner. Rory smiled to herself and cut a bigger slice of omelette - baby bump needed feeding.

 

Nevertheless, she thought briefly on the whole situation. Here she was, back in her hometown, pregnant with the baby of a married man, a married _extremely wealthy_ man, as she shovels a cheese and ham omelette down her mouth in her stepdad’s diner because there was no way in hell she was going to pay for food when she could just pester Luke instead. Her friends and family were supportive, albeit mockingly so, and she’d managed to claw most of herself back from the tailspin of grief and poor decision-making her grandfather’s death had inflicted upon her.

 

Then she thought of all that could have been - living in some Maine mansion, sneaking around to avoid Mitchum and Logan’s wife and whoever else might crop up, facing up to the judgement of her family for taking up an offer that she still insists was totally innocent and not at all as sleazy as they have been making out. The whole thing was farcical.

  
So she laughed.


End file.
